“Well,” said Aaron. “I suppose
we shall meet again.”
“Oh, sure to,” said Lilly, rising from
his chair. “We are sure to run across
one another.”
“When are you going?” asked Aaron.
“In a few days’ time.”
“Oh, well, I’ll run in and see you before
you go, shall I?”
“Yes, do.”
Lilly escorted his guest to the top of the stairs,
shook hands, and then returned into his own room,
closing the door on himself.
Aaron did not find his friend at home when he called.
He took it rather as a slap in the face. But
then he knew quite well that Lilly had made a certain
call on his, Aaron’s soul: a call which
he, Aaron, did not at all intend to obey. If
in return the soul-caller chose to shut his street-door
in the face of the world-friend—well, let
it be quits. He was not sure whether he felt
superior to his unworldly enemy or not. He rather
thought he did.
MORE PILLAR OF SALT
The opera season ended, Aaron was invited by Cyril
Scott to join a group of musical people in a village
by the sea. He accepted, and spent a pleasant
month. It pleased the young men musically-inclined
and bohemian by profession to patronise the flautist,
whom they declared marvellous. Bohemians with
well-to-do parents, they could already afford to squander
a little spasmodic and self-gratifying patronage.
And Aaron did not mind being patronised. He
had nothing else to do.
But the party broke up early in September. The
flautist was detained a few days at a country house,
for the amusement of the guests. Then he left
for London.
In London he found himself at a loose end. A
certain fretful dislike of the patronage of indifferent
young men, younger than himself, and a certain distaste
for regular work in the orchestra made him look round.
He wanted something else. He wanted to disappear
again. Qualms and emotions concerning his abandoned
family overcame him. The early, delicate autumn
affected him. He took a train to the Midlands.
And again, just after dark, he strolled with his little
bag across the field which lay at the end of his garden.
It had been mown, and the grass was already growing
long. He stood and looked at the line of back
windows, lighted once more. He smelled the scents
of autumn, phlox and moist old vegetation and corn
in sheaf. A nostalgia which was half at least
revulsion affected him. The place, the home,
at once fascinated and revolted him.
Sitting in his shed, he scrutinised his garden carefully,
in the starlight. There were two rows of beans,
rather disshevelled. Near at hand the marrow
plants sprawled from their old bed. He could
detect the perfume of a few carnations. He wondered
who it was had planted the garden, during his long
absence. Anyhow, there it was, planted and fruited
and waning into autumn.
